The Abbot of Inisfalen

"I wear the holy Augustine's dress,

And Cormac is my name,

The Abbot of this good Abbey

By grace of God I am.

"I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
And when my prayers were said,

I hearkened awhile to a little bird
That sung above my head."

The monks to him made answer,
"Two hundred years have gone o'er,

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Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, And never was heard of more.

"Matthias now is our Abbot,
And twenty have passed away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
We live in an evil day."

IV

"Now give me absolution;

For my time is come," said he.
And they gave him absolution
As speedily as might be.

Then, close outside the window,

The sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began Was uttered by any bird.

The monks looked out and saw the bird,
Its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
Another white bird was seen.

Those two they sang together,

Waved their white wings, and fled;

Flew aloft, and vanished;

But the good old man was dead.

They buried his blessed body
Where lake and greensward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
A holly-bush at his feet;

Where spreads the beautiful water

To gay or cloudy skies,

And the purple peaks of Killarney

From ancient woods arise.

William Allingham (1824-1889]

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE

TRAMPLE! trample! went the roan,

Trap! trap! went the gray;

But pad! pad! PAD! like a thing that was mad,

My chestnut broke away.

It was just five miles from Salisbury town,
And but one hour to day.

Thud! THUD! came on the heavy roan,

Rap! RAP! the mettled gray;

But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,
That she showed them all the way.

Spur on! spur on!-I doffed my hat,
And wished them all good-day.

They splashed through miry rut and pool,-
Splintered through fence and rail;

But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,-
I saw them droop and trail.

To Salisbury town-but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs.
Past the walls of mossy stone;
The roan flew on at a staggering pace,
But blood is better than bone.

I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,
For I knew it was all my own.

The Three Troopers

But trample! trample! came their steeds,
And I saw their wolf's eyes burn;
I felt like a royal hart at bay,
And made me ready to turn.

I looked where highest grew the may,
And deepest arched the fern.

I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;
One blow, and he was down.

The second rogue fired twice, and missed;

I sliced the villain's crown,

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Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate,
Fast, fast to Salisbury town!

Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,
Thud! thud! upon the sand,-

With a gleam of swords and a burning match,
And a shaking of flag and hand;

But one long bound, and I passed the gate,
Safe from the canting band.

Walter Thornbury [1828-1876]

THE THREE TROOPERS

DURING THE PROTECTORATE

INTO the Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splashed
With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropped a crust,
And stared at the guests with a frown;
And drew their swords, and roared for a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,
Their sword blades were still wet;

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,
As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,

And cursed old London town;

Then waved their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

The 'prentice dropped his can of beer,
The host turned pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squire

Grew white at the wild men's shout.
Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And showed their teeth with a frown;
They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

The gambler dropped his dog's-cared cards,
The waiting-women screamed,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,
On the wild men's sabers gleamed.

Then into their cups they splashed the crusts,
And cursed the fool of a town,

And leaped on the table, and roared a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse; The eldest muttered between his teeth, Hot curses-deep and coarse.

In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,

And cried as they spurred through the town,

With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

Away they dashed through Temple Bar,

Their red cloaks flowing free,

Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone

None liked to touch the three.

The silver cups that held the crusts
They flung to the startled town,
Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Walter Thornbury [1828–1876]

The Sally from Coventry

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THE SALLY FROM COVENTRY

"PASSION o' me!" cried Sir Richard Tyrone,
Spurning the sparks from the broad paving-stone,
"Better turn nurse and rock children to sleep,
Than yield to a rebel old Coventry Keep.
No, by my halidom, no one shall say,
Sir Richard Tyrone gave a city away!"

Passion o' me! how he pulled at his beard!
Fretting and chafing if any one sneered,
Clapping his breastplate and shaking his fist,
Giving his grizzly moustachios a twist,
Running the protocol through with his steel,
Grinding the letter to mud with his heel.

Then he roared out for a pottle of sack,
Clapped the old trumpeter twice on the back,
Leaped on his bay with a dash and a swing,
Bade all the bells in the city to ring,

And when the red flag from the steeple went down,
Open they flung every gate in the town.

To boot! and to horse! and away like a flood,
A fire in their eyes, and a sting in their blood;
Hurrying out with a flash and a flare,

A roar of hot guns, a loud trumpeter's blare,
And first, sitting proud as a king on his throne,
At the head of them all dashed Sir Richard Tyrone.

Crimson, and yellow, and purple, and dun,
Fluttering scarf, flowing bright in the sun,
Steel like a mirror on brow and on breast,
Scarlet and white on their feather and crest,
Banner that blew in a torrent of red,

Borne by Sir Richard, who rode at their head.

The "trumpet" went down-with a gash on his poll,

Struck by the parters of body and soul.

Forty saddles were empty; the horses ran red

With foul Puritan blood from the slashes that bled.